Chapter 33

He remembers something. “Oh, hey,” he says. “You’re you.”

“I’m somebody, anyhow.” I grin my recognition. “How you doin? Merry Christmas…?” I venture.

“Pfft.” He rolls his eyes. “You must not remember me.”

“The Curse of the Christmas Boyfriend strikes again?”

“He left me for Santa.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Oh yes, he did.”

I have the dregs of a triple shot of espresso puddled at the bottom of a paper cup. I fill it with drip coffee and walk with him to a table by the window facing Eighth Avenue. “What did he do,” I ask, “run off to the North Pole? Can you even do that? Like, do they have an airport? At least he’ll come crawling back when he finds out there is no Santa, right?”